"Fancy," she continued, "your passing me so long ago,... and I
totally unconscious, sitting there in my carriage,... never dreaming
of this friendship which I ... care for so much!... Do you remember at
La Trappe what I told you, there on the staircase?--how sometimes the
impulse used to come to me when I saw a kindly face in the street to
cry out, 'Be friends with me!' Do you remember?... It is strange that
I did not feel that impulse when you passed me that day in Paris--feel
it even though I did not see you--for I sorely needed kindness then,
kindness and wisdom; and both passed by, at my elbow,... and I did not
know." She bent her head, smiling with an effort. "You should have
thrown yourself astride the horse and galloped away with me.... They
did those things once, Monsieur Scarlett--on this very spot, too, in
the days of the Saxon pirates."
The whirring monotone of the spinning-wheel suddenly filled the house;
Sylvia was singing at her wheel:
"Woe to the maids of Paradise!
Yvonne!
Twice have the Saxons landed; twice!
Yvonne!
Yet shall Paradise see them thrice,
Yvonne! Yvonne! Marivonik!"
"The prophecy of that Breton spinning song is being fulfilled," I
said. "For the third time we Saxons have come to Paradise, you see."
"But this time our Saxons are not very formidable," she said, raising
her beautiful gray eyes; "and the gwerz says, 'Woe to the maids of
Paradise!' Do you intend to bring woe upon us maids of Paradise--do
you come to carry us off, monsieur?"
"If you will go with--me," I said, smiling.
"All of us?"
"Only one, madame."
She started to speak, then her eyes fell. She laughed uncertainly.
"Which one among us, if you please--mizilour skler ha brillant deuz
ar fidelite?"
"Met na varwin Ket Kontant, ma na varwan fidel," I said, slowly, as
the words of the song came back to me. "I shall choose only the
fairest and loveliest, madame. You know it is always that way in the
story." My voice was not perfectly steady, nor was hers when she
smiled and wished me happiness and a long life with the maid of
Paradise I had chosen, even though I took her by force.
Then constraint crept in between us, and I was grimly weighing the
friendship this woman had given me--weighing it in the balance against
a single hope.
Once she looked across at me with questioning eyes in which I thought
I read dawning disappointment. It almost terrified me.... I could not
lose her confidence,... I could not, and go through life without
it.... But I could live a hopeless life to its end with that
confidence.... And I must do so,... and be content.
"I suppose," said I, thinking aloud, "that I had better go to
England."
"When?" she asked, without raising her head.
"In a day or two. I can find employment there, I think."
"Is it necessary that you find employment ... so soon?"
"Yes," I said, with a meaningless laugh, "I fear it is."
"What will you do?"
"Oh, the army--horses--something of that kind. Riding-master,
perhaps--perhaps Scotland Yard. I may not be able to pick and
choose.... If I ever save enough money for the voyage, perhaps you
would let me come, once in a long while, to pay my respects, madame?"
"Yes,... come, if you wish."
She said no more, nor did I. Presently Sylvia appeared with a peasant
woman, and the young countess went away, followed by the housekeeper
with her keys at her girdle.
I rose and walked to the window; then, nerveless and depressed, I went
out into the garden again to smoke a cigar.
The cat had disappeared; I traversed the garden, passed through the
side wicket, and found myself on the cliffs. Almost immediately I was
aware of a young girl, a child, seated on the rocks, her chin propped
on her hands, the sea-wind blowing her curly elf-locks across her
cheeks and eyes. A bundle tied in a handkerchief lay beside her; a cat
dozed in her lap, its sleek fur stirring in the wind.
"Jacqueline!" I said, gently.
She raised her head; the movement awakened the cat, who stood up in
her lap, stretching and yawning vigorously.
"I thought you were to sail from Lorient to-day?"
The cat stopped purring from her knees; the child rose, pushing back
her hair from her eyes with both hands.
"Where is Speed?" she asked, drowsily.
"Did you want to see him, Jacqueline?"
"That is why I returned."
"To see Speed?"
"Parbleu."
"And you are going to let the others sail without you?"
"Yes."
"And give up the circus forever, Jacqueline?"
"Y-es."
"Just because you want to see Speed?"
"Only for that."
She stood rubbing her eyes with her small fists, as though just
awakened.
"Oui," she said, without emotion, "c'est comme ça, m'sieu. Where
the heart is, happiness lies. I left the others at the city gate; I
said, 'Voyons, let us be reasonable, gentlemen. I am happy in your
circus; I am happy with Speed; I can be contented without your circus,
but I cannot be contented without Speed. Voilà!'... and then I went."
"You walked back all the way from Lorient?"
"Bien sûr! I have no carriage--I, Jacqueline." She stretched her slim
figure, raised her arms slowly, and yawned. "Pardon," she murmured,
"I have slept in the gorse--badly."
"Come into the garden," I said; "we can talk while you rest."
She thanked me tranquilly, picked up her bundle, and followed me with
a slight limp. The cat, tail up, came behind.
The young countess was standing at the window as we approached in
solemn single file along the path, and when she caught sight of us she
opened the door and stepped out on the tiny porch.
"Why, this is our little Jacqueline," she said, quickly. "They have
taken your father for the conscription, have they not, my child? And
now you are homeless!"
"I think so, madame."
"Then you will stay with me until he returns, won't you, little
one?"
There was a moment's pause; Jacqueline made a grave gesture. "This is
my cat, madame--Ange Pitou."
The countess stared at the cat, then broke out into the prettiest peal
of laughter. "Of course you must bring your cat! My invitation is
also for Ange Pitou, you understand."
"Then we thank you, and permit ourselves to accept, madame," said
Jacqueline. "We are very glad because we are quite hungry, and we
have thorns from the gorse in our feet--" She broke off with a joyous
little cry: "There is Speed!" And Speed, entering the garden
hurriedly, stopped short in his tracks.
The child ran to him and threw both arms around his neck. "Oh, Speed!
Speed!" she stammered, over and over again. "I was too lonely; I will
do what you wish; I will be instructed in the graces of
education--truly I will. I am glad to come back--and I am so tired,
Speed. I will never go away from you again.... Oh, Speed, I am
contented!... Do you love me?"
"Dearly, little sweetheart," he said, huskily, trying to steady his
voice. "There! Madame the countess is waiting. All will be well now."
He turned, smiling, toward the young countess, and lifted his hat,
then stepped back and fixed me with a blank look of dismay, which said
perfectly plainly that he had unpleasant news to communicate. The
countess, I think, saw that look, too, for she gave me an almost
imperceptible nod and took Jacqueline's hand in hers.
"If there are thorns in your feet we must find them," she said,
sweetly. "Will you come, Jacqueline?"
"Yes, madame," said the child, with an adoring smile at Speed, who
bent and kissed her upturned face as she passed.
They went into the house, the countess holding Jacqueline's
thorn-scratched hand, the cat following, perfectly self-possessed, to
the porch, where she halted and sat down, surveying the landscape with
dignified indifference.
"Well," said I, turning to Speed, "what new deviltry is going on in
Paradise now?"
"Preparations for train-wrecking, I should say," he replied, bluntly.
"They are tinkering with the trestle. Buckhurst's ragamuffins have
just seized the railroad station at Rose-Sainte-Anne, where the main
line crosses, you know, near the ravine at Lammerin. I was sure there
was something extraordinary going to happen, so I went down to the
river, hailed Jeanne Rolland, the passeuse, and had her ferry me over
to Bois-Gilbert. Then I made for the telegraph, gave the operator ten
francs to let me work the keys, and called up the arsenal at Lorient.
But it was no use, Scarlett, the governor of Lorient can't spare a
soldier--not a single gendarme. It seems that Uhlans have been
signalled north of Quimper, and Lorient is frantic, and the garrison
is preparing to stand siege."
"You mean," I said, indignantly, "that they're not going to try to
catch Buckhurst and Mornac?"
"That's what I mean; they're scared as rabbits over these rumors of
Uhlans in the west and north."
"Well," said I, disgusted, "it appears to me that Buckhurst is going
to get off scot-free this time--and Mornac, too! Did you know that
Mornac was here?"
"Know it? I saw him an hour ago, marshalling a new company of
malcontents in the square--a bad lot, Scarlett--deserters from
Chanzy's army, from Bourbaki, from Garibaldi--a hundred or more line
soldiers, dragoons without horses, francs-tireurs, Garibaldians, even
a Turco, from Heaven knows where--bad soldiers who disgrace
France--marauders, cowardly, skulking mobiles--a sweet lot, Scarlett,
to be let loose in Madame de Vassart's vicinity."
"I think so, too," I said, seriously.
"And I earnestly agree with you," muttered Speed. "That's all _I_
have to report, except that your friend, Robert the Lizard, is out
yonder flat on his belly under a gorse-bush, and he wants to see
you."
"The Lizard!" I exclaimed. "Come on, Speed. Where is he?"
"Yonder, clothed in somebody's line uniform. He's one of them.
Scarlett, do you trust him? He has a rifle."
"Yes, yes," I said, impatiently. "Come on, man! It's all right; the
fellow is watching Buckhurst for me." And I gave Speed a nervous push
toward the moors. We started, Speed ostentatiously placing his
revolver in his side-pocket so that he could shoot through his coat if
necessary. I walked beside him, closely scanning the stretch of open
moor for a sign of life, knowing all the while that it is easier to
catch moon-beams in a net than to find a poacher in the bracken. But
Speed had marked him down as he might mark a squatting quail, and
suddenly we flushed him, rifle clapped to his shoulder.
"None of that, my friend," growled Speed; but the poacher at sight of
me had already lowered the weapon.
I greeted him frankly, offering my hand; he took it, then his hard
fist fell away and he touched his cap.
"I have done what you wanted," he said, sullenly. "I have the
company's rolls--here they are." He dragged from his baggy trousers
pockets a mass of filthy papers, closely covered with smeared writing.
"Here is the money, too," he said, fishing in the other pocket; and,
to my astonishment, he produced a flattened, soiled mass of
bank-notes. "Count it," he added, calmly.
"What money is that?" I asked, taking it reluctantly.
"Didn't you warn me to get that box--the steel box that Tric-Trac sat
down on when he saw me?"
"Is that money from the box?" I exclaimed.
"Yes, m'sieu. I could not bring the box, and there had been enough
blood shed over it already. Besides, when Buckhurst broke it open
there was only a bit of iron for the scrap-heap left."
I touched Speed's arm to call his attention; the poacher shrugged his
shoulders and continued: "Tric-Trac made no ceremony with me; he
told me that he and Buckhurst had settled this Dr. Delmont, and the
other--the professor--Tavernier."
"Murdered them?" muttered Speed.
"Dame!--the coup du Père François is murder, I suppose."
Speed turned to me. "That's the argot for strangling," he said,
grimly.
"Go on," I motioned to the poacher. "How did you get the money?"
"Oh, pour ça--in my turn I turned sonneur," he replied, with a savage
smile.
A _sonneur_, in thieves' slang, is a creature of the footpad type who,
tripping his victim flat, seizes him by the shoulders and beats his
head against the pavement until he renders him unconscious--if he
doesn't kill him.
"It was pay-day," continued the Lizard. "Buckhurst opened the box
and I heard him--he hammered it open with a cold chisel. I was
standing guard on the forest's edge; I crept back, hearing the
hammering and the little bell ringing the Angelus of Tric-Trac. It was
close to dusk; by the time he got into the box it was dark in the
woods, and it was easy to jump on his back and strike--not very hard,
m'sieu--but, I tell you, Buckhurst lay for two days with eyes like a
sick owl's! He knew one of his own men had done it. He never said a
word, but I know he thinks it was Tric-Trac.... And when he is
ready--bon soir, Tric-Trac!"
He drew his right hand across his corded throat with a horridly
suggestive motion. Speed watched him narrowly.
I asked the poacher why Buckhurst had come to Paradise, and why his
banditti had seized the railroad at Rose-Sainte-Anne.
"Ah," cried the Lizard, with a ferocious leer, "that is the kernel
under the limpet's tent! And I have uncovered it--I, Robert Garenne,
bon sang de Jésu!"
He stretched out his powerful arm toward the sea. "Where is that
cruiser, m'sieu? Gone? Yes, but who sent her off? Buckhurst, with his
new signal-book! Where? In chase of a sea-swallow, or a frigate
(bird). Who knows? Listen, messieurs! We are to wreck the train for
Brest to-night. Do you comprehend?"
"Where?" I asked, quietly.
"Just where the trestle at Lammerin crosses the ravine below the
house of Josephine Tanguy."
Speed looked around at me. "It's the treasure-train from Lorient.
They're probably sending the crown diamonds back to Brest in view of
the Uhlans being seen near Quimper."
"On a false order?"
"I believe so. I believe that Buckhurst sent the cruiser to Brest,
and now he's started the treasure-trains back to Brest in a panic."
"That is the truth," said the Lizard; "Tric-Trac told me. They have
the code-book of Mornac." His eyes began to light up with that
terrible anger as the name of his blood enemy fell from his lips; his
nose twitched; his upper lip wrinkled into a snarl.
I thought quietly for a moment, then asked the poacher whether there
was a guard at the semaphore of Saint-Yssel.
"Yes, the soldier Rolland, who says he understands the telegraph--a
sot from Morlaix." He hesitated and looked across the open moor toward
Paradise. "I must go," he muttered; "I am on guard yonder."
I offered him my hand again; he took it, looking me sincerely in the
eyes.
"Let your private wrongs wait a little longer," I said. "I think we
can catch Buckhurst and Mornac alive. Do you promise?"
"Y-es," he replied.
"Strike, then, like a Breton!"
We struck palms heavily. Then he turned to Speed and motioned him to
retire.
Speed walked slowly toward a half-buried bowlder and sat down out of
ear-shot.
"For your sake," said the poacher, clutching my hand in a tightening
grip--"for your sake I have let Mornac go--let him pass me at
arm's-length, and did not strike. You have dealt openly by me--and
justly. No man can say I betrayed friendship. But I swear to you that
if you miss him this time, I shall not miss--I, Robert the Lizard!"
"You mean to kill Mornac?" I asked.
His eyes blazed.
"Ami," he said, "I once spoke of '_a little red deer_,' and you half
understood me, for you are wise in strange ways, as I am."
"I remember," I said.
His strong fingers closed tighter on my hand. "Woman--or doe--it's
all one now; and I am out of prison--the prison _he_ sent me to! Do
you understand that he wronged me--me, the soldier Garenne, in
garrison at Vincennes; he, the officer, the aristocrat?"
He choked, crushing my hand in a spasmodic grip. "Ami, the little red
deer was beautiful--to me. He took her--the doe--a silly maid of
Paradise--and I was in irons, m'sieu, for three years."
He glared at vacancy, tears falling from his staring eyes.
"Your wife?" I asked, quietly.
"Yes, ami."
He dropped my numbed fingers and rubbed his eyes with the back of his
big hand.
"Then Jacqueline is not your little daughter?" I asked, gravely.
"Hers--not mine. That has been the most terrible of all for me--since
she died--died so young, too, m'sieu--and all alone--in Paris. If he
had not done that--if he had been kind to her. And she was only a
child, ami, yet he left her."
All the ferocity in his eyes was gone; he raised a vacant, grief-lined
visage to meet mine, and stood stupidly, heavy hands hanging.
Then, shoulders sloping, he shambled off into the thicket, trailing
his battered rifle.
When he was very far away I motioned to Speed.
"I think," said I, "that we had better try to do something at the
semaphore if we are going to stop that train in time."